His search had ended on a hilltop outside of Zurich, with four men dead and Emma wounded.
That was three days ago.
Jonathan squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. He couldn’t deny the affection in her touch. But was it love? Or was it rote?
Suddenly she was up, making a circuit of the hut. “You’ve got enough provisions for a week. Stay put. Nobody knows about this place. When you leave, act as if I’m dead and gone. That’s just the way it is. Get that throughyour head. Use your American passport. Go back to work. Take whatever assignment they give you.”
“And Division? You don’t think they’ll mind?”
“Like I said, they’ll be watching. But you needn’t worry. You’re an amateur. They won’t bother you.”
“And if they do?”
Emma stopped, her shoulders tensing. The answer was evident. “It’s me they want.”
“So when will I see you again?”
“Hard to say. I’ve got to see if I can make things safe.”
“And if you can’t?”
Emma stared at him, a sad smile turning her lips downward. It was her code for “Don’t ask any more questions.”
“You’ve got to give me more than that,” he said.
“I wish I could, Jonathan. I really do.”
With a sigh, she threw her rucksack onto the cot and began stuffing her belongings into it. The sight panicked him. Jonathan stood and walked toward her. “You can’t leave yet,” he said, trying to talk in his professional voice. The doctor advising his patient, instead of the husband ruing the loss of his wife. “You shouldn’t even be exercising your shoulder. You could reopen the wound.”
“You didn’t care so much about that an hour ago.”
“That was…” Jonathan cut his words short. His wife was smiling, but it was an act. For once he could see through it. “Emma,” he said. “It’s only been three days.”
“Yes,” she said. “Foolish of me to wait so long.”
He watched as she packed. Outside, it was dark. Snow had begun to fall. In the nickled moonlight, the snowflakes looked as fragile as glass.
Emma placed the rucksack on her good shoulder and walked to the door. There would be no kiss, no labored goodbye. She grasped the door handle and spoke without looking back. “I want you to remember something,” she said.
“What?”
“Remember that I came back for you.”
The plane taxied to the arrival gate. The cabin lights blinked as the aircraft switched to auxiliary power. Passengers stood and opened the overhead luggage bins. In seconds the main cabin was a maelstrom of activity. Jonathan remained seated, his eyes on the police cars that had parked at right angles to the plane. No one was going anywhere yet, he said to himself. Unbuckling his safety belt, he shoved his satchel under the seat in front of him and positioned his feet so that he could stand up quickly. His eyes darted up and down the aisles, looking in vain for an avenue of escape.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. Please retake your seats. Police officers are coming aboard to conduct some business on behalf of Her Majesty’s government. It is imperative that you clear the aisles.”
With a collective moan, the passengers found their seats.
In his seat in row 43, Jonathan leaned forward, his muscles tensed. He spotted the first of the policemen a moment later. He was dressed in plain clothes and followed by three uniformed officers with Kevlar vests strapped to their chests, pistols worn high on their hip and in full view. They bullied their way down the aisle, making a beeline for him. There were no smiles, no apologies. Jonathan wondered what they had in mind for him. Whether he would be interrogated by English authorities or the Americans had made a deal to have him turned over to their care. Either way, the outcome was foreordained. He would be “disappeared.”
He decided to protest, if only to be noticed. He had to leave some evidence of his resistance.
As the plainclothes officer approached, Jonathan stood.
“You,” barked the policeman, pointing at Jonathan with his walkie-talkie. “Sit! Now!”
Jonathan started to push toward the aisle. He wouldn’t sit. He would fight. He knew he would lose, but that was beside the point.
“I said sit,” the policeman repeated. “Please, sir,” he added in a polite voice. “We’ll be off the aircraft in a minute. You’ll be able to leave then.”
Jonathan sank back into his seat as the column of policemen swept past. Turning his head, he watched as they confronted a clean-shaven African male seated in the last row of the economy cabin. The suspect protested, shaking his head, gesticulating wildly with his hands. There was a shout, a scuffle, a woman’s piercing scream, and then it was over. The man was out of his seat, hands raised above his head in a gesture of surrender.
Jonathan saw that he was a small man, bent as driftwood, wearing a heavy woolen sweater that was much too warm for the English summer. The suspect was speaking Swahili, or a dialect of Kikuyu. Jonathan didn’t need to understand the language to know that he was saying it was a mistake. He wasn’t the man they were looking for. Suddenly the accused reached for his bags in the overhead compartment. A uniformed police officer shouted and tackled him to the floor.
Moments later, the African was cuffed and led from the plane.
“I’ll bet he’s a terrorist,” said the elderly woman seated next to Jonathan. “Just look at him. It’s plain as day.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You can’t be too careful these days,” the woman added forcefully, lecturing her naive seatmate. “We’ve all got to keep a sharp eye. You never know who you’ll be sitting next to.”
Jonathan nodded in agreement.
3